


City of Gold (Icarus)

by kbaycolt



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff, Aziraphale means well but most people don't, BAMF Crowley, Gabriel's a dick but he's got his reasons, Gen, I just had a good plot twist idea so, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Protective Crowley, Raphael!Crowley, idk if I'll finish this, the ineffable plan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2020-04-24 09:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19170895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kbaycolt/pseuds/kbaycolt
Summary: Three times Crowley saved Aziraphale from Falling, and one time he just wasn't fast enough."My dear Icarus,Have you brought tales of gold for me?You--the master of self,The one who held his own thread and shears.Don't share of how hard you beat your wings."-Lani Foronda





	1. The Great Fire of Rome

**1\. Rome - July, 64 A.D.**

While Crowley prefers to live a life of luxury, the Roman empire is almost too extravagant for him. Just full of power-hungry psychos ruling for a few years before being killed or offing themselves, so, really, nothing very interesting here.

What is interesting, however, is why a certain angel is hanging around.

He hasn't found Aziraphale yet, but he can feel vague twinges of celestial power flitting around Rome, most notably the merchant shops. It's an odd place, even for Aziraphale.

Crowley pushes aside a tent flap and steps into a decorated shop, filled to the brim with all sorts of spices that make his eyes burn behind his sunglasses. He shoves them farther up his face in irritation.

"Excuse me," he says, drawing aside a young man tending to the spices. "Have you happened to see an angel, about ye high, probably performing miracles for the poor?"

The man blinks a bit, laughs, and replies in another language that Crowley can't be bothered to translate. By his expression, though, he thinks it's a joke.

"Is that Latin? I hate Latin." Crowley turns away and sets off at a brisk walk down the street, ignoring any vendors who try to pitch their craft to him.

In the distance, the sun drifts closer to the horizon, casting lengthy shadows over the city. As the streets empty out, Crowley is more and more conspicuous as the only stranger around here. Glancing up the sky, he watches smoke from the palace curl into the air. The bustling shops are winding down, and Crowley is no closer to finding Aziraphale.

"How hard can it be to find a bloody angel in this city?" Crowley groans, tousling his hair in annoyance.

"Crawley?"

Crowley whirls around. Standing at the far end of the street, watching him curiously, is none other than Aziraphale.

"It's Crowley," he corrects. "Why are you here, angel?"

"Simply advising the emperor, helping spread good in such a flourishing city." Aziraphale smiles in that naive, self-satisfied way of his that in no way suggests pride. Crowley internally gags.

"And what sort of advising have you done so far?"

"Well, I was going to help him with a bonfire. It was going to be a marvelous show. That is, until you distracted me." Aziraphale doesn't look annoyed, even now. "All that shouting definitely drew my attention."

"I wasn't shouting."

"Perhaps not shouting, but certainly being very open about this whole angelic business."

"Wait, did you say bonfire?" Crowley asks suddenly, frowning. "Where?"

"Erhm, here, actually," Aziraphale replies with a chuckle.

Crowley narrows his eyes. "A bonfire for what? Last I checked, there wasn't any sort of celebration going on tonight." He moves a bit closer to the angel, suspicion coiling at the base of his ribs. "And the emperor is Nero, right? You were giving Nero advice?"

"Yes, why?"

Groaning, Crowley drags a hand down his face, slipping off his sunglasses and exposing his slitted eyes. "Nero is a maniac, as they all are. He's playing you, angel. Most people are."

Aziraphale looks slightly affronted. "He is not."

"Let me start the bonfire, then, if it's all the same to you."

Spluttering for a moment, Aziraphale shakes his head and walks up to Crowley until there's only a few inches between them. "I will not let you spread your evil unless I am able to help spread some good."

"Angel, darling," Crowley says, completely missing Aziraphale's flabbergasted expression, "I really think it's best if I do this. It seems as though you're hanging with the wrong crowd."

"Wrong c-?"

Crowley waves his hand and the tent nearest to them bursts into flames. Aziraphale jumps back with a yelp. He dusts off his clothes, huffing and murmuring under his breath in the most offended manner Crowley has ever seen from him. The orange flames crackle and pop, glowing in the veil of the night. A brisk wind kicks up, blowing the fire onto another tent.

"What have you done?" Aziraphale cries, backing away from the fire. "You are destroying these merchants' livelihood!"

"Better me than you, angel," Crowley mutters. Aziraphale doesn't seem to hear him as the angel continues to reprimand him, not harshly but in the stern way of an exasperated parent. "I do think we should both be taking our leaves. See you in another hundred years, then?"

Unable to quench the flames and unwilling to let Crowley have the last word, Aziraphale stammers, "I-I suppose so, but-"

Crowley is gone before Aziraphale finishes.


	2. Valley Campaigns of 1864

**2\. Shenandoah Valley - Spring, 1864**

After the Great Fire of Rome fiasco, Crowley had decided to keep an eye on Aziraphale. Not too close, not enough to warrant suspicion, but just enough to ensure that the angel wasn't falling in with the wrong crowd, like Crowley did once upon a time.

Of course, none of this is part of the Arrangement, so Aziraphale can't exactly tell him to back off. Not that Crowley would listen.

He keeps a safe distance, always out of sight and detection. Aziraphale never notices anything.

Crowley isn't sure if that's a good or a bad thing.

So, when he spots the angel below the Southern border during the American Civil War, it worries him. He takes off after Aziraphale, staying just far enough behind to watch him.

Imagine his surprise when Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson comes out to meet the angel.

They shake hands briefly, though Aziraphale hesitates a bit, and then Jackson leads him inside a tent. Crowley lowers himself into a crouch, listening closely.

"Good of you to meet with us, Az...?"

"Aziraphale."

"Yeah, that. So what do you think about this?"

A few papers rustle. Aziraphale hums a bit.

"Very detailed and effective. But don't you think it would be better to just stop fighting? End the war? Nothing good comes of war."

Jackson laughs derisively. "There's no backing out of this, Az. Appreciate it, though. What about the plans?"

Clearing his throat, Aziraphale says, "I don't recommend going this route, because you'll be outflanked-"

Okay, that's enough. Crowley shoves himself to his feet and yanks aside the tent flap, marching into the meeting. "Excuse me, excuse me," he interrupts loudly, pushing aside other Confederate soldiers to reach the angel. "Azzy, darling, can we chat?"

"Crowley," Aziraphale sighs. "What are you doing here?"

Crowley doesn't touch the angel, but he stands very close, staring down Jackson. "My friend here is a bit inexperienced in the actual field, so I think you'll need my expertise." He launches into the war strategy Aziraphale was about to disclose, not allowing the angel to speak any more until the end of the meeting. Jackson shakes hands with Crowley, rolls up the plans, and heads out to organize his troops.

Before he even opens his mouth, Crowley knows Aziraphale is cross with him.

"Why did you do that?" Aziraphale snaps, folding his arms. "I had it handled! You're always swooping in and ruining things at the last minute. I can make my own decisions, you know. Is this about the Great Fire of Rome thing, because some say Nero was a good emperor." He pauses less than a moment to catch his breath. "Or is it that you don't trust me? Is that it, Crowley?"

"I do trust you!" Crowley cries. He flings his hands up in the air, groaning. "I do trust you, angel. I don't trust other people."

A tiny bit less angry now, Aziraphale frowns and says, "what?"

"I trust you to be yourself, to be nice and good all the time, but everyone else is going to take advantage of you. It's just the way humans are. They're greedy and cruel and terrible and I don't trust any of them."

"Not all of them," Aziraphale defends weakly.

"Whatever. Just, whatever. Goodbye, angel."

Although Aziraphale calls out for him, Crowley flees the scene faster than he would've liked to admit.


	3. That Church Scene™

**3\. London - 1941**

There's a sort of internal radio message screaming and rattling around inside Crowley's head, shrieking the same words over and over:  _he's going to Fall he's going to Fall he's going to Fall he's going to-_

A bookshop owner, dealing with Nazis, a name of a church he can't be bothered to think of, all of it pounds with the rhythm of Crowley's heart as he rushes through the streets of London, desperately trying to pinpoint the ethereal vibe of Aziraphale while mentally running himself around in circles about the possibilities.

Helping Nazis, even by accident, counts as falling in with the wrong crowd. Crowley Fell from the same mistake.

"Stupid angel," Crowley mutters to himself as he shoves open the doors of the church, faltering only for a moment as his feet begin to burn from the consecrated ground. He forces himself onward, hopping and hissing as he goes, holiness shooting up his feet and legs and making him groan from the pain.

Nearly tripping over himself, Crowley grabs a pew to help him stand and continues hurrying towards his angel.

Aziraphale stares at him in annoyance, but a hint of concern crosses his face when he sees Crowley bouncing from foot to foot.

"Consecrated ground," Crowley hisses between gritted teeth, having half a mind to tear off his sunglasses and finish this whole thing before it can get any worse, but getting shot and discorporated by a Nazi whilst trying to save his best friend, who is an angel, would definitely not go over well with his head office. And he isn't quite sure what he's saying anymore, he's nearly blind from the burning pains on his feet, but he knows he babbling about beaches and hot sand and he really needs to stop talking.

"What are  _you_  doing here?" Aziraphale asks, his tone filled with exasperation.

"Stopping  _you_  from getting into trouble!" Of course, by 'trouble', he means what Heaven will technically consider sinning, and really, Hell is just unbefitting for an angel the likes of Aziraphale.

Crowley is so focused on trying to quell the effects of the consecrated ground on his demonic essence, that he rattles off several threats and then follows through on them, until the whole church is a pile of smoking rubble and Aziraphale is safe from Crowley's fate.

Then Aziraphale  _thanks_  him, and nothing about this whole situation could get any worse than it is in this moment.

"Oh, the books!" Aziraphale cries suddenly, throwing one hand up in a sort of pathetic disappointment. Crowley sighs and wrenches the bag from the corpse hand. "Oh. I forgot all the books. Oh, they'll all be blown to-"

Crowley holds up the bag for Aziraphale. "Little demonic miracle of my own."

Fighting the urge to scramble away from the remains of the church, Crowley turns his back on the angel and completely misses the warm, smitten expression that Aziraphale sends his way.


	4. The Fall of Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heaven takes revenge. Crowley has a chat with God.

The world didn't end, the bookshop didn't burn, and all is well.

At least, most of it is well.

Aziraphale can't seem to find himself alone these days. Crowley hovers constantly, lounging around the bookshop or driving Aziraphale everywhere, even when they can both fly. Aziraphale honestly feels pity for Crowley's plants, probably parched and wilting back at Crowley's untouched flat.

Then again, they might all be too scared to wilt.

Normally, Aziraphale wouldn't mind the company; in fact, he greatly enjoys spending time with the demon, but ever since they both tricked Heaven and Hell, they'd been on edge. Aziraphale always checks over his shoulder, and Crowley glares suspiciously at every unconventional-looking human in case they're a demon.

It's stressful and exhausting.

Things get even worse when Michael shows up at Aziraphale's bookshop.

A quiet, calm atmosphere fills the place, putting every customer at ease. It's one of those rare days that Crowley spends at his own flat. Sunlight slants through the windows and illuminates the dusty shelves, books with torn spines and creaky floorboards. This place is a home more than Heaven ever was. The moment Michael steps foot inside, Aziraphale feels the warmth of the bookshop drain into a biting chill, barren and desolate, like Heaven.

"Michael," Aziraphale says, without turning around. It seems like a defiant move, but in reality, he's frantically trying to stop panicking and talk normally to the archangel. Gripping the edges of his coat to still his hands, he glances over his shoulder to see Michael watching him.

Her eyes are like ice. Her expression is almost... nervous?

Maybe she heard about his failed execution and is uncomfortable around him. It's flattering, although wholly untruthful.

"Aziraphale," Michael says in reply. She doesn't move forward. "Where is the demon Crowley?"

"I don't see why you need to know that."

"I need to ensure he isn't here."

"Why?" Aziraphale turns around, narrowing his eyes at her. "So you can kill me without having to face him? Are you scared of a demon, Michael?"

"No. There is sensitive information we must discuss." Michael gives him a pleading, nearly desperate look. When Aziraphale doesn't respond right away, she takes a few steps forward and whispers, "everyone is listening. We must go somewhere we will not be overheard."

"Who do you mean by 'everyone'?"

"Who else?"

Aziraphale swallows hard at the implications that Gabriel doesn't know Michael is here, which means that Michael is purposefully defying another archangel and with it, Heaven. This must be truly serious.

"Just a moment," Aziraphale mutters. He clasps his hands and casts a sense of urgency over the remaining customers, convincing them to hurry out of the shop. He flips the closed sign over as soon as everyone is gone. Sighing, he draws down the front shade and turns to face Michael. "Speak quickly."

"Heaven is very displeased with you, Aziraphale. After that stunt you pulled with the fire and Gabriel, he's been trying to figure out how to get back at you for a month now. While you're down here living it up with your demon boyfriend, Gabriel is plotting your Fall."

"Why would he want me to Fall if he tried to kill me?"

Michael rests her hand on the desk, fingers curling into the wood. Her whole body is tense and coiled with anxiety, her eyes darting back and forth suspiciously. "He's decided that if he can't kill you, he'll damn you to Hell so they have to deal with both of you. The only problem is, even though we're archangels, we can't cast out an angel. Only God can do that."

"So how does he plan to go about casting me out?" Aziraphale asks, trying to get as much information from Michael as possible. At this point, however, she seems to be all-too willing to tell him everything. This is odd, but he won't question it yet.

"I don't know. He keeps that sort of thing to himself. I just thought I ought to warn you."

"Why?"

Letting out a short breath, Michael straightens and laces her fingers together. "I don't agree with what you did, Aziraphale. I don't think it was your place to interfere with Armageddon, and I would normally think you deserve to Fall for fraternizing with a demon. However, I also don't agree with Gabriel's methods, and..." She shakes her head, her voice softening. "He's slowly been taking my place as ruler of Heaven, until I'm just another one of his lackeys. Raphael is gone, and we all know what happened to Lucifer, so I am one of the last archangels, and yet I am treated like a _common_ angel."

"I'm sorry to hear it" is all Aziraphale can bring himself to say. He feels only the slightest twinge of sympathy for Michael, because a matter of status is less than important to him.

"You are going to Fall, Aziraphale," Michael tells him. "But you will have a chance to say goodbye. Consider this a fair warning."

And with that, Michael spins on her heel and vanishes in a flash of white.

"... for God's sakes," Aziraphale murmurs to himself.

* * *

A week later, Aziraphale is sitting on a park bench and waiting with his heart in his throat, having received a message from Michael earlier that morning. The angels are coming after him today.

He hasn't told Crowley for two reasons: the demon might get hurt trying to save Aziraphale, and the latter can't bear to say goodbye to his best friend.

At this point, he isn't quite sure what they are anymore, but their bond transcends friendship. It wouldn't do Crowley justice to put him in danger. Aziraphale is going to miss him terribly, and things won't be the same afterward, but this is their reality now. Aziraphale can't fight against Gabriel.

Wings flutter behind him.

Aziraphale swallows hard.

Hands latch onto Aziraphale's coat, rough and firm. Gabriel hauls him up into a standing position, his eyes cold and expression filled with twisted satisfaction. Behind him, Sandalphon, Uriel, and Michael hover in a semicircle, watching the scene unfold. Michael's face is carefully blank.

"You've caused me a lot of trouble, Aziraphale," Gabriel tells him through gritted teeth.

"I'm aware," Aziraphale mutters.

"I want nothing more than for you to plummet into Hell..." Gabriel closes his eyes briefly, shakes his head, and smiles darkly. "... but unfortunately, Hell doesn't want you." He snaps his fingers.

Suddenly, Sandalphon and Uriel whirl on their third companion and grab Michael, forcing her to her knees with a cry of pain. Michael struggles briefly, but Uriel pressed a wickedly sharp knife to her throat and Michael goes still. Her wide eyes flick up to Gabriel.

"Gabriel! What are you doing?"

"Two angels committing treason," Gabriel says. His tone has a strange quality to it, like he's attempting to sound regretful but failing miserably. "It's a shame. And an archangel, no less. Disappointing."

"Gabr-" Michael cuts herself off as Uriel's grip tightens.

"Since Hell doesn't want you," Gabriel continues nonchalantly, turning his attention back to Aziraphale, "I suppose we'll have to improvise. Sandalphon."

Said angel draws a long, shiny sword from its sheath and hands it to Gabriel.

"Don't!" Michael shouts.

"What are you doing?" Aziraphale manages to ask, nervously eyeing the sword as Gabriel twirls it. "G-Gabriel?"

"If I can't cast out an angel, I can certainly ensure that he nevers bothers me again." In one swift movement, Gabriel spins Aziraphale around and kicks him into the ground, making him fall to his knees. A heavy shoe presses down in the middle of Aziraphale's back, forcing him to lie flat against the concrete. Panic flutters inside his chest. "Bring out those wings for us, would you?"

"No, no," Aziraphale hisses as Sandalphon bends down, reaching for the sensitive area where his wings are located. When Sandalphon touches it, Aziraphale's wings spring into being, white and unblemished by the world. Sandalphon chuckles lowly.

"This isn't how we do things!" Michael cries, horrified.

"There is no 'we' anymore, Michael," Gabriel says, "not since you betrayed us. Uriel, make her shut up."

Uriel tears a strip of fabric from Michael's clothes and gags her with it. Michael bows her head, humiliated and silenced. Aziraphale claws at the ground beneath him, frantically attempting to get up with Gabriel's foot holding him down.

"Finally, you'll stop being a nuisance," Gabriel snarls, adjusting the sword edge so that it presses against Aziraphale's wing joint. He lifts the sword into the air.

* * *

Crowley knocks three more times on Aziraphale's door before letting himself in.

The bookshop is empty, which is odd for a Sunday morning. He calls out for the angel, but receives no answer. A familiar sort of fear lodges inside his ribcage.

"Aziraphale!" Crowley shouts.

Silence.

"Stop playing games, you bastard!"

More silence.

Crowley runs up the stairs and checks each bedroom, finding each empty. The back room is empty. The basement, storage, everything. Aziraphale isn't anywhere to be found.

As he tries to stomp down his terror, a faint, whispery voice echoes in his ears, so distant he can barely hear it. He forces himself to stay still and strains to listen.

...  _Crowley!_

"Aziraphale?" Crowley says aloud, the angel's voice stirring relief in his heart. "Angel, this mental link is unsafe. Just tell me where you are."

Suddenly, a piercing scream shatters Crowley's mind, causing him to double over and clap his hands over his ears. Hoarse, pained shrieks resonating with angelic harmony ring faintly, high-pitched and horrible. Crowley sucks in a sharp gasp.

Aziraphale.

He's in danger.

At the same time, Crowley feels a sort of tear somewhere in Soho. The heavenly sort. He yanks the front door open, leaps in the Bentley, and races off for the park.

The ride is filled with harsh screams grating on Crowley's ears, terrible sounds of his angel in pain. When he reaches the park, evening is well upon them, and he launches himself out of the car before it even stops. On the other side, he sees a group of angels crowding around something white and red on the ground.

"AZIRAPHALE!" Crowley yells, throwing himself into a sprint.

Gabriel glares at him and steps away from Aziraphale, lowering a bloodied sword. Uriel restrains Michael, and Sandalphon positions himself defensively.

"Keep him," Gabriel spits. The four angels vanish in a shimmering haze of white.

Skidding to a halt, Crowley falls to his knees next to Aziraphale, horrified by the scene before him.

Aziraphale's wings, his beautiful, lovely white wings are severed at the joint, lying on the concrete on either side of him. His coat is soaked crimson and blood splatters the ground. He groans softly, fingers twitching in a slight attempt to move, but he remains still. Crowley's hands hover over Aziraphale, frozen in place and struck with indecision. For the first time in a long time, he truly has no idea how to handle this.

"Angel," Crowley whispers in shock.

"C-Crowley," Aziraphale chokes out, his voice cracking. He tries to reach for Crowley but ends up back on the ground, eyes screwed shut and a single tear slipping down his face. " _Crowley_."

"Oh, oh, God..." Crowley stops himself from picking up the wings. Even cut off, he still feels unworthy to touch them. Instead, he slowly gathers Aziraphale in his arms, minding the other's injuries as he does so. Crowley pauses every time Aziraphale expresses pain, not wanting to hurt him. Crowley eventually manages to help Aziraphale to his feet with his arm slung over Crowley's shoulders, helping Aziraphale walk.

"My wings," Aziraphale whispers. He leans to the side, making Crowley scramble to hold him upright. "Don't leave them, Crowley, please-"

"I won't, I won't." Crowley hurriedly scoops up the wings under one arm, shuddering at the idea of his tainted essence ruining the perfect appendages. "Come on. Come on, angel. We'll go to my flat. Come on."

They awkwardly stumble to the Bentley, where Crowley realizes that Aziraphale can't ride painlessly. Deciding they need a miracle, Crowley closes his eyes and imagines them inside the flat. The world jolts and tilts, and then they're actually standing in the living room. Aziraphale sways on his feet, nearly collapsing.

Crowley helps Aziraphale into the bedroom. Aziraphale's legs buckle and sends both of them to their knees, with Aziraphale bent over, head in his hands, and Crowley trying to get him back on his feet.

"They're gone," Aziraphale sobs, and suddenly he's crying, showing more emotion than Crowley has ever seen from him. "Crowley, they're _gone_. My wings are- are-"

"I know," Crowley soothes quietly. He stays on the floor, sitting with Aziraphale as he cries and grieves for his loss, and all the while, the anger in Crowley's heart is quickly becoming fury. Anger at the angels, anger at himself, and most of all, anger at God. He doesn't voice this, thought, knowing it wouldn't do Aziraphale any good.

Once Crowley gets Aziraphale on the bed, he scrounges around the place and finds a first-aid kit. He winds bandages around the ugly wounds; jagged, bloody slices in Aziraphale's skin, cutting off the wings right at the joint. It's a half-assed, purposefully agonizing job that just strengthens Crowley's hatred of Gabriel.

Aziraphale is sleeping by the time Crowley is done. He leaves the first-aid kit on the table in case Aziraphale needs it.

In the main room, Crowley leaves the wings where they lay.

He takes a left, opens the front door, and locks it behind him. He walks out onto the street and heads back to the park, where the angels had departed. He finds the Bentley there, waiting for him.

However, he isn't here for the car.

Throwing his arms out wide, Crowley tilts his head to the pitch-black sky and shouts, "what the hell, God? What the bloody fucking hell?" his tone heightens to a near-scream. "NO! NO, YOU DON'T GET TO DO THIS TO HIM! NOT AFTER EVERYTHING!"

Silence. God doesn't reply.

"BASTARD!" Crowley howls. "HE DOESN'T DESERVE THIS! DO YOU FUCKING HEAR ME?"

A beat later, everything goes white.

Crowley opens his eyes to a massive, looming white space, a long glass wall stretching along the side and nothing else. He frowns in confusion. It's bright despite the lack of lights, and he finds that his clothes are free of Aziraphale's blood. He's dressed in a new black suit and sleek jeans.

"Crowley," a strikingly familiar voice says behind him.

He whirls around. Several feet away, God watches him, looking like, for all intents and purposes, Frances McDormand. She laces Her fingers and waits for him to talk.

"Why the hell did you let that happen to him?" Crowley demands, casting all caution aside. He doesn't feel a sliver of fear for his creator. Storming towards Her, he lifts a finger accusingly. "He just wanted to live in peace! He's wanted nothing but to help people all these years, and he's put up with me even when I don't deserve it. Why is he being punished for choosing good and altruism?"

God says nothing.

"Aziraphale is the best angel out of the whole damn lot! None of them give half a shit about him, and Gabriel just chopped his fucking wings off like a farm chicken! You don't have any control over your angels!"

Still, God says nothing.

"Fix him," Crowley says sharply, narrowing his eyes at Her. "Fix him right now. Put his wings back and make him an angel again." When She doesn't speak, he practically shouts, "aren't you going to say anything?!"

"If you would allow me," God replies finally. She smiles slightly. "Crowley, do you believe that selflessness is a virtue of a demon?"

"What?"

"It seems you've spoken of no one but Aziraphale, instead of expressing my injustices to you personally. You care more for the angel than your own wellbeing."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

God chuckles softly, shaking Her head. "Crowley, it has to do with everything. To answer your questions, no, I will not restore Aziraphale, nor take revenge on his attackers." Before Crowley can protest, She cuts him off. " _You_ will."

Crowley splutters and coughs. "What are you talking about?"

"Everything I do is a part of the greater plan, or the ineffable one, as Aziraphale coined it. Casting you out was a strategic move, though it caused me much pain. Do you remember, Crowley, your status in Heaven before your Fall?"

"Not really," Crowley mutters. It is the one thing he can never remember, and it's the one thing that bothers him the most. His entire recollection of Heaven is muted and dulled, like it has been washed out. His memories only gain clarity at the time of his Fall and everything afterward.

"Well, perhaps it is time you are reinstated, seeing as you consider mild inconveniences to be evil and have fallen in love with an angel." She winks at him. "Those don't seem to be the actions of a demon, do they?"

A pause.

"What do you mean by that?" Crowley breathes.

Her image fades out of view, Her words ringing in his ears. "Avenge your love, Raphael."

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not to be dramatic but I almost cried reading all of the kind comments

Michael has never been cold—God's grace has always warmed her—but in Heaven's dungeons, a chill seeps into her core.

The place is white and empty, as everything else is, but the bars are reinforced with angelic steel and the chains around her wrists are like ice. There are no windows, and no doors. It is simple and plain and dreadfully quiet.

Sighing softly to herself, Michael lowers herself to the floor and sits down, letting her head fall back against the wall. After everything she's done, this is the least of her punishment.

She had just wanted to help.

However, she knows that it is her fault that Aziraphale and Crowley were discovered in the first place, and it is her fault that Armageddon almost started. She'd wanted that war. She was compliant with Gabriel's schemes and tightening of rules in Heaven, despite all the virtues that she stands for. If she didn't doubt her power, she would've dethroned the other archangel years ago.

Outside the cell, Uriel stands guard, silent and stone-cold. She stays right out of Michael's line of sight, perhaps as to not be tempted into conversation.

Everything is quiet for a while.

Then, the creak of hinges becomes audible, and Uriel moves farther from her position. "You aren't allowed to be in here—" She cuts herself off and lets out a cry that is abruptly muted. Something clatters against the floor.

The slow click of heels grows louder and louder as someone rounds the corner, stopping in front of Michael's cell.

She gasps. " _Crowley?"_

Except...

It isn't. Not completely, anyway. Crowley looks exactly the same, with his black sunglasses and firey red hair, although he stands straighter instead of slouching. His wings are folded against his back, but the sleek black color has faded into a pearly grey. Most strikingly, however, is the fact that he stands in front of her, completely fine and showing not a single hint of discomfort.

Heaven is a thousand times worse than consecrated ground.

"How are you here?" Michael whispers.

Crowley lifts one eyebrow, smiling at her in an easygoing way she's never seen before. "Divine intervention works wonders, Michael. Prison is an unflattering look on you."

Chains clatter as Michael raises her wrists. "Indeed."

"Why are you down here instead of scheming with Gabriel and co.?"

"I... I betrayed Heaven and informed Aziraphale when Gabriel was coming. I will be punished severely."

"So you didn't help him?"

"No," Michael assures him firmly.

After a lengthy pause, Crowley grabs the bars. A reddish-white glow shines from his palms, heating up the metal until it bends and melts beneath his hands, allowing him to tear the cell door away entirely. He drops the bars off to the side.

"Get up," Crowley says. Michael is quick to obey, hurrying to stand up. He takes ahold of her arms and repeats the process with her cuffs, freeing her. "Neat trick, huh?"

"Demons can't go to Heaven," Michael says, rubbing her sore wrists. "Was Beelzebub right? Have you gone native and Risen?"

"Ha. If only. Nah, I just swapped bodies with Aziraphale for the trial and went from there. I did have a sort of reinstatement, though, thanks to the Almighty." Crowley lowers his sunglasses for a moment, revealing that his eyes are no longer slitted and yellow, but a warm, normal brown. He winks at her. "It's like I never Fell at all."

Michael watches him warily as he shoves his sunglasses back up, looking infinitely pleased with himself. He spins on his heel, beckoning for her to follow, and marches out into the hallway.

At that moment, Michael remembers who Crowley used to be, long ago, before he got caught up with Lucifer.

"Raphael!" Michael cries. Crowley stops. He glances over his shoulder. "You were called Raphael. I... I didn't realize."

"No one did. Much less myself. I think, in a way, all demons forget who they used to be. And, um, Crowley is fine. Don't call me Raphael."

"R-Right. Okay."

Crowley kneels down beside an unconscious Uriel, scowling at her. "I'll take care of you later. Until then..." He grabs her unceremoniously by the arms and dumps her in the nearest cell, sealing the door shut. Michael winces, and then remembers she doesn't care. "Aren't you coming?" he says in the doorway. Michael is quick to follow him out.

"Why are you here, Ra—Crowley? I know it wasn't to break me out."

"You'd be correct. I'm here to set things right. Where would you suppose Gabriel is?"

Michael hesitates. "What are you going to do?"

A wicked grin finds its way onto Crowley's face. He lowers his sunglasses again, and his eyes flash golden and slitted. "Take revenge, of course."

* * *

Aziraphale's eyes flutter open. Soft, yellow rays of sunlight ripple over the grey bed sheets, causing him to squint. As he regains his awareness, he registers the clean, earthy scent induced by the houseplants in Crowley's flat. Before he can stop himself, he tries to sit up.

Instantly, pain explodes from his shoulder blades, like dozens of vicious talons shredding through his skin. He lets out a groan and slumps back onto the bed. Everything comes rushing back; Gabriel, the sword, and then agony as his wings were severed from his body. On a physical and metaphysical level, he is exhausted and aching, but a keen sort of desperation takes hold of him and urges him to move.

He braces his arms beneath his chest and clenches his fists. Gritting his teeth, he slowly pushes himself up, sliding back until his feet brush the floor. His legs tremble as he tentatively sways on his feet, his shoulder blades filled with stabbing pains. Bandages chafe against his skin where Crowley fixed him up.

Newfound appreciation for the demon hits Aziraphale like a tidal wave.

He takes one careful step forward, then another, going at the pace his body allows. A headache blossoms behind his eyes.

"Come on," he murmurs to himself. "We can do it."

By the time he makes it into the main area, he's trembling violently and feeling faintly sick. His legs are liable to give out beneath him at any moment. Lurching to the side, he grabs a desk and steadies himself, blinking hard. Crowley's answering machine sits in front of him. The plants are in the other room.

Where is Crowley?

Aziraphale makes the horrible, awful, terrible mistake of looking at the floor.

A pair of slightly shriveled, faded white wings are folded on the ground, splattered with dried blood and chopped off unevenly at the joint.

Gagging, Aziraphale turns away and covers his mouth, his eyes burning. Grief and nausea twist together in his stomach.

"Oh, my dear," he chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut. A tear slips down his face. "Oh. Oh,  _God_."

When he's able to look again, he heads for Crowley's answering machine, hoping the demon left a message for him. The only thing that plays is Crowley's voicemail and the last conversation recorded. Huffing in frustration, Aziraphale staggers back into the bedroom, collapsing onto the bed. His injuries ache.

He swallows down the lump in his throat at the demon's absence. He whispers, "come back soon, Crowley."

* * *

There have been few times in Crowley's extremely long life in which he has felt true fury.

Coincidentally, all fall within the past year.

1\. Finding Aziraphale's bookshop burning and assuming the angel was dead,

2\. Going to Heaven and realizing how terrible the other angels were to Aziraphale,

and 3. Seeing Aziraphale bloodied and broken at Gabriel's feet.

The fourth addition to the list would be right now. With Michael trailing behind him and escorting him around Heaven, resonance and grace humming inside him, his relief from the eternal guilt and torment that constantly plagued him as a demon, and the return of his ethereal purpose, he is boiling with rage.

His name has also resurfaced in his memories: Raphael. A name he hardly recognizes anymore and doesn't necessarily want to claim as his own. He is Crowley now, and he has long since accepted that, so the ancient name is merely a title of implications.

But damn, does it feel _good_ to be back.

Michael draws to a halt before a large pair of revolving doors. "Right in there," she says, and he notices that she's significantly shorter than him when he takes advantage of his full height.

Before he goes in, Crowley unsheathes his wings. They're back to the shiny, stormy grey color they once were, and he can't say he's displeased with the change. His fury bubbles to the surface, morphing into celestial power and strength. Reddish white light sparks around his hands, coursing up his arms and wreathing his body in shimmering light.

Time for Gabriel to get the shock of his life.

Crowley has barely touched the doors when they blow inwards, exploding in a plume of white fire and shredded metal, showering the angels inside and causing a cacophony of panicked shouting to erupt. Crowley stares at his hands in surprise.

He's really not used to this.

Shaking off his momentary distraction, he strides into the room, knowing he's emerging from a cloud of smoke and debris in a dramatic entrance. The first angel he sees is Sandalphon, which is unfortunate for the latter.

Crowley grabs Sandalphon by his collar and lifts the angel off his feet, face twisted with anger. "Hello, sandal. Having a good time? Not for much longer." He punches Sandalphon across the face and then tosses him to the side, causing the angel to hit the floor with a cry. Sandalphon cowers at Crowley's feet, eyes wide and frightened. "You thought you could terrorize and hurt my angel? You've made a fatal mistake. Because now, instead of Aziraphale, who may have granted you mercy, you have to deal with _me_."

Throwing his head back with a sharp bark of laughter, Crowley leers over Sandalphon, dark satisfaction coiling in his chest at the fear on the angel's face.

Suddenly, Sandalphon's expression shifts into both terror and recognition. "... Raphael?" he whimpers.

"Maybe once," Crowley sneers, "but when I Fell, that name was taken from me, as was everything else. And here I am, back for the sole reason of punishing _you_. You and all those who dared to harm Aziraphale."

"W-Wait, please, Raphael, this isn't you," Sandalphon pleads uselessly. "You're a healer!"

"Maybe once," Crowley repeats. He rips off his sunglasses and narrows his snake-eyes coldly, enjoying the horror on Sandalphon's features. "Never, ever, speak or interact with Aziraphale again, or I will know, and I will be back. Now get out of my sight."

Sandalphon lunges to his feet and scrambles to get out, bolting like the rat he is.

Now, to deal with the other.

The excess angels have fled, leaving only Gabriel, with Michael guarding the door. Gabriel, to his credit, doesn't run. He summons a sword, the very same used to mutilate Crowley's angel. Pure, unbridled wrath claws at Crowley's newfound grace. Gabriel glares at him and takes a step backwards.

"Demons cannot enter Heaven," Gabriel says, a tremor of uncertainty in his tone.

"Well, then it seems I'm not a demon anymore, huh?" Crowley twirls his staff and Gabriel flinches. "Weird, isn't it? Do you remember me, Gabriel? I hope you haven't forgotten, even after all this time."

"You can't be Raphael. He's... He's gone."

"Fallen," Crowley says, rolling the word around on his tongue in a way that slurs the vowels and strikes the consonants hard.

"No," Gabriel snaps. "No, he's just gone. There's no way that you... you can't..."

"Then it's a shame that I very much can." Crowley moves forward; Gabriel moves back. Relishing the confusion and fear he's wreaking, Crowley sends white fire sparking wherever he steps, leaving burning footprints behind. The top of his staff alights with red and white flames. Gabriel's eyes latch onto the weapon. "Now, the question remains; how am I going to hurt you?"

Gabriel attacks first; he lunges at Crowley with the sword, missing by inches. Crowley swings his staff in a circle and blocks Gabriel's blow, metal-on-metal colliding with a _clang!_

"Maybe I'll tear your lungs out," Crowley hisses. "Maybe I'll rip your wings off."

The two separate, then Crowley lashes out at Gabriel, catching the edge of the sword and flinging it away from the archangel. Gabriel stumbles back and Crowley casually sticks his foot out, tripping Gabriel. He smacks into the floor, weaponless. When he tries to get up, Crowley kicks him back down.

"Or maybe," Crowley muses, lowering himself into a crouch and grabbing Gabriel by his collar, "I'll do away with you traditionally."

"You can't kill me," Gabriel growls. He leans forward so they're inches apart, his eyes cold and empty. "Even if you're an angel again, killing me will make you Fall. The Great Plan—"

"I'm pretty sure all of this is going swimmingly according to the Ineffable Plan. Now..." Crowley plants both hands on Gabriel's shoulders, feeling red sparks hissing against the expensive fabric. Gabriel's eyes go wide with panic as Crowley's hands grow warmer. "Shut your stupid mouth and die already."

Reddish white fire sparks to life at Crowley's fingers, arcing up Gabriel's body and showering him in flames, his mouth open in a silent scream as he's engulfed by the fire. Gabriel clutches vainly at Crowley's sleeve, but the flames don't bother the latter. In the doorway, Michael covers her mouth and closes her eyes. Crowley holds on tightly as Gabriel jerks and twitches, eyes rolling back in his head, before finally going still.

Gabriel's body crumbles to ashes in Crowley's hands.

Crowley slowly rises to his feet. The staff folds in on itself and vanishes, and the sword does the same. He dusts himself off, scrubbing the ashes from his clothes.

"You can look now," he says to Michael. She removes her hands, opening her eyes. "I'm not going to stick around. You're in charge, I guess."

"Really?"

"Yes. Keep an eye on Uriel and Sandalphon and whatnot." Before Crowley goes, he adds, "also, maybe don't contact me or Aziraphale for a couple months. Let things settle down."

"Probably for the best."

"Probably."

* * *

By the time Crowley makes it to his flat—he'd taken the Bentley instead of flying—it's late afternoon, and he knows Aziraphale has most likely noticed his absence. Nervous of what he'll find inside, he opens the door.

The shades are all drawn back, allowing sunlight to stream through. His line of sight reaches the bedroom, where he sees that Aziraphale is missing. Calming himself, he locks the door behind him and checks to make sure everything is in its rightful place. His answering machine is moved slightly to the side. The wings are no longer on the floor.

_The wings are no longer on the floor._

Before he freaks out, he hears a faint voice from the other room. The hall filled with plants.

"... wish I hadn't been such a doormat," Aziraphale is saying, speaking to the plants. "Crowley is so assertive, it's a wonder he even wants to be my friend at all... Oh, no need to be frightened. Crowley really doesn't mean any harm. I doubt he can bear to be rid of any of you."

Crowley rounds the corner.

On the ground, one wing spread out across his lap, is Aziraphale, combing his fingers through the severed limb. His shoulder blades are wrapped in bandages, a spot of red staining the bandages where the wing joint is. Aziraphale plucks a withered feather from the wing and casts it aside.

"Oh dear, these really aren't in good shape," Aziraphale murmurs.

"Aziraphale?"

The moment their eyes meet, Aziraphale's expression shifts to delight and relief. He starts to get up, but reluctantly sits back down, wincing. "Crowley! I didn't know where you'd gone. Are you okay?"

"More than okay," Crowley says. He lowers himself into a kneel beside Aziraphale, staring at the wing. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, just, um... fixing them up. They were in a sorry state before." Aziraphale sighs softly and sets the wing on the floor, next to the other. "Where did you go?"

"To tie up loose ends and all that."

Aziraphale stares at him.

"... okay, I may or may not have taken revenge on the angels."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale huffs. "Please tell me you haven't severely injured Michael, she didn't do anything wrong."

"Nope, she's fine. In charge of Heaven now."

"And the others?"

"Uriel and Sandalphon are terrified out of their wits. Gabriel won't bother you ever again."

Aziraphale gives him a look. "What did you do, Crowley? I'm not going to chastise you." Before Crowley can answer, Aziraphale frowns in confusion and narrows his eyes at Crowley. "What's going on? You're not... You don't feel right. Are you hurt?"

"I'm not hurt, angel."

"But..." Aziraphale touches Crowley's shoulder and gasps. He snatches his hand back, inching away. His gaze is wary. "Who are you? You're not Crowley."

"It's me, Aziraphale, I promise." Crowley tries to reach out for Aziraphale, but the latter flinches. "I talked to God. She changed some things." Exhaling sharply, Crowley takes off his glasses, showing Aziraphale how his eyes are still like a snake's. "She decided I wasn't demon material anymore."

"You were... reinstated?"

"Yes, exactly. Neat trick, huh? Gave me the juice to get into Heaven and burn Gabriel to ash."

"Oh, dear," Aziraphale mutters, shaking his head. "This is a lot to handle, I'm sorry." After a minute, his expression softens, and he says, "what should I call you? Raphael?"

"No, no, just Crowley. Raphael isn't me anymore."

"Okay. Crowley."

The silence that falls over them is tentative and a bit uncomfortable. Crowley tries not to feel upset at Aziraphale's distance.

"You'll want to go back to Heaven, I suppose?" Aziraphale says finally, casting his eyes to the ground. "After all, if you're an archangel again, there's no point in staying around on earth with me." He wrings his hands. "I understand, of course. I'd be too much of a burden for you."

"Don't be an idiot," Crowley snaps. Aziraphale glances up at him, surprised. "I'd rather stay here with you than those pricks upstairs. Don't say you're a burden again. You've never been a burden to me."

Aziraphale blinks hard, and Crowley hopes he doesn't start crying. "Oh, Crowley, you do too much for me."

"Nonsense, angel."

Sniffing, Aziraphale says, "I'm sorry. I don't want you to leave."

"I won't. I won't, Aziraphale. I'm never going to leave you." Crowley offers a small smile. "Not even for Alpha Centauri."

"Oh, good." Aziraphale shakes his head a bit, smiling in a way that suggests he's not happy in the slightest. He touches Crowley's shoulder, closing his eyes briefly, then draws back. "I'm terribly selfish."

"Why do you say that?"

"I feel as though I've lost something, by you gaining something. I grew to know you as a demon, and now I feel I'm missing the friend I knew." Aziraphale frowns. "Please don't listen to me, you don't deserve to hear me complain."

"No, no, Aziraphale," Crowley insists, "everything I do is for you." To further cement this, Crowley summons his ethereal grace and pockets it, stuffing it far down inside himself and smothering it with the occult energy of who he's become. "See? You haven't lost me. I'm right here."

Aziraphale breaks out into a wide grin. Crowley returns it.

They settle back into familiarity.

"And to ensure we're back to normal," Crowley announces suddenly, "I'm going to try something." He carefully hovers his hands over Aziraphale's severed wings, concentrating. Slowly, the wings lift into the air, drifting over to Aziraphale and placing themselves on his shoulder blades where they truly belong. Crowley grits his teeth and focuses on healing the wounds, stitching up Aziraphale's grace as he does so. A reddish white glow engulfs Aziraphale.

When it fades, the wings are attached again, fanning out behind Aziraphale in a marvelous display. A white, celestial glow emanates from the wings. He gasps softly and touches the tips of his feathers.

"Better?" Crowley says.

Without a word, Aziraphale lunges at Crowley and wraps his arms around the latter in a tight hug. His voice breaking, Aziraphale cries, "I love you."

Crowley freezes.

Perhaps he's short-circuiting. Equipment malfunction and all that.

Aziraphale quickly draws back, assuming he's overstepped a boundary. "Oh, oh, I'm sorry. It just slipped out, I promise. I didn't mean it."

"No, angel, you... you meant it, and..." Crowley trails off, his words turning into a cough. He laughs anxiously. "D-Don't be sorry. I... I do too. Love you, I mean."

Blushing pink, Aziraphale opens his arms for another hug, and Crowley lets himself sink into Aziraphale's embrace, relishing the warmth of the angel and the familiar scent of his cologne. Aziraphale squeezes him briefly and buries his face in Crowley's shoulder. On accident, Crowley's wings flash into existence, curling around them and mingling with Aziraphale's feathers.

"Oh, this is embarrassing," Crowley mutters.

"They're lovely," Aziraphale tells him. "Positively gorgeous."

"Ugh..."

Aziraphale laughs, and Crowley begrudgingly chuckles with him.

When they both decide to pull away, Crowley gets to his feet and helps Aziraphale up, picking off the bandages now that his wings are healed. Crowley scoops up the loose feathers and slips them into Aziraphale's pocket.

"Don't any of you get comfortable," Crowley remembers to threaten his plants.

The plants tremble.

"Oh, don't be mean," Aziraphale scolds lightly. He strokes a leaf, and the plant stops quivering. In fact, it even straightens a bit, almost proudly. "See?"

"Shut up." Crowley narrows his eyes at the plant that Aziraphale touched.

Mentally deciding that Aziraphale needs more plants in his bookshop, Crowley fishes in his pocket for a pen and sticks it in the dirt, marking the plant for later. He'll uproot it and put it in a pot for the angel later.

"So, how about we get you home?" Crowley suggests.

"My home is wherever you are," Aziraphale says shyly.

Crowley groans loudly and drags a hand down his face, flushing bright red. "Jumping right into the sappy stuff, are we? Bastard."

"Well, you know me."

"I do indeed, angel. I do indeed."

Hand-in-hand, a sort-of-angel and a sort-of-demon who were both rubbish at their jobs walk out of a flat in London.

There is no punchline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap, folks. What did you think? Please leave constructive criticism and/or compliments in the comments!


	6. Alternately

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Plot Twist.

There is another side to this story.

We'll start with Heaven, and the Fall.

* * *

Gabriel lowers himself to his knees in the grass and cups his hands around a single sapling, admiring the simple yet sturdy design. Earth is still in the works, the universe is still cooling. This meadow hums with life.

He decides then that all of God's creations are beautiful.  _All_ of them.

The other angels don't always agree with him.

Michael always sneers at the bugs, but Gabriel loves them, with their iridescent bodies and shiny wings. Ba'al is so proud of their creations. It'd be cruel to claim they were ugly. Ba'al is beautiful, too. Though he doesn't mean to, Gabriel is closer to the cherub than his direct siblings. Ba'al makes such wonderfully intriguing creatures, such as flies. They are particularly good at flies.

This is the part where Michael calls him sharply away from the Earth and back to his bureaucratic work within the office. He doesn't hate anything, but his feelings towards paperwork are not very savory. He ought to ask for forgiveness.

Later. Ba'al is waiting for him.

While Gabriel goes off to find them, there is another archangel, lost among the dazzling nebulae that he's so lovingly crafted. His name is Raphael, with his stunning stormy wings and tumbling locks of auburn hair, his eyes bright and golden.

One day, Ba'al will carve out a name for themself as a fearsome warrior, a commander and a Prince. One day, Raphael will ask too many questions. One day, Ba'al will be known as Beelzebub. One day, Raphael will be known as Crowley. One day, something inside Michael will twist and snap, and she will resort to manipulation and betrayal to pursue her ambitions. One day, Gabriel will strike down an innocent Principality, a victim of Michael's falsified Wrath.

This is not that day.

On this day, a Principality has strayed from his station, interested in the stars. Raphael will give Aziraphale an extensive tour, and at the end, they will share a chaste kiss. On this day, Gabriel will watch Ba'al breathe life into a gleaming green bottlefly, and he will tell them he loves them.

On this day, Michael will hear of Lucifer's dissent. It will not be the first time, nor will it be the last.

* * *

There is a Great War.

Lucifer rallies his angels and Ba'al serves directly beside him. Gabriel pleads with Ba'al to repent, to choose the righteous path. Ba'al scoffs and shrugs him off.

"They were a lost cause," Michael says, touching Gabriel's shoulder with slender, freezing fingers. Gabriel doesn't remember Michael being so cold.

He doesn't remember feeling so lost.

"It's not right," Raphael is saying to Aziraphale, throwing his hands out towards the humans in indignation. "For them to suffer. They're innocent. I don't understand why they must be in pain."

"It isn't our place to question," Aziraphale tells him.

Raphael's inquisitive nature is a curse, and he cannot drop the issue. He expresses his doubt too loudly.

There is a Casting Out and subsequent Falling.

There is a Garden, and there is a Demon.

We know the story from there.

Most of the story, at least.

* * *

The Fall was a mere week ago, in celestial terms. Hell is scrambling to pull themselves out of the sulphur. Heaven is a wreck.

Gabriel is grieving.

He'd gotten a glimpse of them, right before they were cast out. Ba'al was bleeding from a head wound, their wings a luminescent white in the glory of battle, black eyes glinting and narrowed. They were locked in combat with Uriel. They made eye contact with Gabriel when he shouted a warning for them to watch out, and then they were gone, flung right off the edge of Heaven.

The Almighty, too, is gone. She has completely withdrawn.

Gabriel's whole body shakes with the force of his crying. Heartbreak seethes in his chest, a burning pain, clawing and wrenching itself from his throat in the form of hoarse sobs. Ba'al is gone. Their essence twisted and mangled, destroyed and reborn anew.

He doesn't hear his office door open.

"Oh, Gabriel," Michael murmurs, her icy touch swiftly drawing his attention. She looks terribly sympathetic. "It's quite awful, how they rebelled, yes?"

Gabriel scrubs at his eyes and fails to quell the tears.

"I hope this won't inhibit your work ethic."

His head jerks up. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he says, his voice cracking. "I've just lost my lover and all you can think about is _work?"_

"The Great Plan must be set in motion immediately. Preparations must begin. Now, reduced numbers mean we need to organize the workload efficiently." Michael squeezes his shoulder and steps away. "This was a loss, indeed, but we must be strong. Pull yourself together. You're an archangel."

"You're a heartless bitch, you know that?" Gabriel doesn't see Michael's eyes flash, or the way she presses her lips together, tightly folding her hands. He turns his eyes to the floor. "Get out."

Michael sighs. "I thought you could be salvaged. I suppose I was wrong."

"Wh-"

Michael snaps her fingers sharply, and that's the end of it.

The next time Gabriel is seen in Heaven, he is assigning the lower choirs their jobs, a winning smile on his face and a lingering hollow space beside his heart that he dismisses as stress.

Ba'al never crosses his thoughts again.

* * *

Michael's solution isn't permanent. A thousand years pass, Gabriel encounters a demon on Earth, and all of Michael's walls inside his mind come crashing down.

"You took them away from me," he accuses, pointing a shaky finger at her while she stares back over her desk, expression blank. "You meddled with my memories. What the hell, Michael?"

"You were a mess. It was easier."

"I can't believe you. I'm going to find Ba- Beelzebub, and I'm going to set things right like I should have a long time ago."

"Hm. I don't think so."

Michael's lock clicks. Gabriel whirls on her, fury on his face, but before he can even speak, she waves her hand and he goes still. His violet eyes glaze over, shoulders slumping. Michael does wish it didn't have to come to this, but Gabriel had forced her hand. She simply couldn't allow for something as silly as an infatuation affect the Great Plan coming to fruition. Everything had to go perfectly.

Which meant every angel had to _be_ perfect.

"What am I doing in here?" Gabriel asks, eyebrows furrowed.

"Giving those reports to me, I believe."

* * *

Over the years, Gabriel begins to learn to stop confronting Michael. It does no good.

Michael is manipulating him. He knows.

There's not much he can do to prevent it.

In terms of brute strength, perhaps he could beat her, but she is simply too intelligent of a warrior to challenge brazenly. Gabriel is not a fool. He plays to his strengths, she plays to hers, and they dance around each other for six thousand years, until Armageddon is looming very close and for once, they are united.

Gabriel, as a rule, gets frustrated easily. Aziraphale never fails to stress him out. Still, there is no real animosity towards the Principality. Gabriel is almost jealous of him, for finding his Fallen while Gabriel must pretend he has no clue Ba'al is even alive.

He makes a mistake when he lets Michael see how much Aziraphale annoys him. She's going to use it to her advantage.

Gabriel is so tired. He is too tired to fight Michael's influence, her subtle whispers of grace, the wheedling of Pride and Wrath that she sows in his soul. He doesn't want to be angry at Aziraphale, but Michael is so terribly convincing.

Her backchannels are hypocritical. He doesn't tell her this.

"You're not going to win," he says to her as they sit, alone in a conference room, sorting through files after Armageddon failed to occur. "Whatever long con this is, you'll lose."

"I wouldn't be so sure," she replies evenly. "Now, don't you think Aziraphale deserves to be punished? He's caused you so much strife, after all."

* * *

Aziraphale doesn't die in the flames. Gabriel wants to cry with relief. He loves his little brother, and sentencing him to die was the second worst thing he'd witnessed in his long life.

Michael comes back from Hell visibly shaken. Gabriel has never seen her so disturbed.

It's delightful.

But that scheming, cunning glimmer in her eyes is back when he sees her next. It cannot be anything good.

* * *

In the end, Michael wins.

She goes to Aziraphale and tells him he is going to Fall. Directly after this, she goes to a cafe in Toronto and waits until Hastur sits down in front of her, visibly wary.

"I know you want revenge for what happened to Ligur," Michael says. "I can help you."

Hastur tugs at the collar of his grimy coat. "I don't believe you."

"You can trust me. I'm an angel."

He shouldn't trust her. But when she sticks her hand out, he shakes it.

Firey white angelic grace overwhelms him instantly, cresting over him in a tidal wave of power and strength, and it takes no time at all for Michael to sink her claws into Hastur and rip his demonic essence from his corporation.

To outsiders, Hastur has gone rigid, every muscle tensing. Michael's eyes flash golden.

She releases him and he collapses.

"Do give Lord Beelzebub my regards," Michael says. Clenched in her fist, Hastur's core glows an unearthly blue.

* * *

Gabriel retaliates, as Michael expected. She is unsurprised when Uriel and Sandalphon turn on her. They were always more loyal to Gabriel than her.

"Two angels committing treason," Gabriel says. His eyes are sharp. Michael is good at hiding how smug she feels. Gabriel's tone promises retribution, later. "It's a shame. And an archangel, no less. Disappointing."

Michael wants to start laughing and never stop, but she has a role to play. "Don't!" she cries.

Aziraphale casts her a panicked, horrified look. Michael is not powerless; she reaches out for Gabriel's grace and yanks hard, distorting his perception and flooding him with a surge of Wrath. Gabriel shudders against her, resisting, but she is the first child of God and will have the upper hand every time. Satisfaction twists pleasantly in Michael's chest as Gabriel lifts the sword.

Gabriel cuts Aziraphale's wings off.

Relishing in violence and destruction is a demon trait, so Michael doesn't relish it. There is an emotion there, however, that feels incredibly similar to delight.

Michael is counting on the demon showing up, and so he does, shouting Aziraphale's name, skidding to a halt with bewildered terror in his snake eyes.

Tugging one last time on Gabriel, Michael struggles to resist a grin when he spits, "keep him."

Crowley's fury is going to be crucial for these next steps.

As soon as they arrive back in Heaven, Uriel and Sandalphon drag Michael to her cell, locking her inside. Uriel's expression pulls off an impressive combination of sadness and disgust.

"I can't believe you," Uriel murmurs.

"Believe what you wish." Michael gives her a smile, and Uriel turns sharply away.

Uriel leaves when Gabriel storms inside, his purple eyes burning with hatred that's all his own. Michael has removed her influence entirely. She wonders what it feels like to be manipulated.

"What did you make me do?" Gabriel chokes out, his voice ragged and hoarse. " _What did you make me do?"_

Michael leans forward, baring her golden teeth in a grin. "You regret it?"

"Of course I fucking regret it!" Gabriel runs a hand through his hair and lets out a pained, strangled sound. His hands are caked with Aziraphale's blood. "He's my _brother._ My baby brother. And you-" His face screws up. "You made me _hurt_ him. You _keep making me_ hurt him."

"You sell yourself short. Was I really enough to unhinge you?"

"No more games. No more. The Metatron will decide your fate, and then I'm going to go down to Earth and _heal_ Aziraphale. He did _not_ deserve that!" Gabriel slams his hands against the bars separating them, and Michael is careful not to flinch. "You ruined me. I am going to ruin you."

Michael tracks him with her eyes as he whirls on his heel and leaves. Uriel steps back inside to guard Michael.

No bother. Michael had dismantled the power system in these cells a few weeks prior. Her strength has not dwindled.

Right about now, Crowley is yelling at the sky, blaming God for these injustices and demanding that she save Aziraphale. Michael is an Archangel who remembers Before the Fall, and she knows who Crowley used to be. She reaches down to Earth and surrounds him with her grace.

Speaking for God is a sin. Michael is not speaking for God. She is allowing Crowley to believe what he assumes.

"Avenge your love, Raphael," Michael says. She takes Hastur's essence, faintly pulsing now, and merges it with Crowley's.

A Duke of Hell has enormous power. It's enough to make Crowley feel noticeably different. It's enough to knock loose his memories of Before.

Michael has orchestrated this very carefully.

She sinks back into her corporation and calms herself, letting thoughts of virtuousness and innocence fill her mind. Best to prepare for Crowley's entrance.

* * *

Crowley doesn't remember ever having red fire at his disposal, but he dismisses it.

Hastur's specialty was always fire.

* * *

Gabriel is dead, Uriel and Sandalphon are cowed, and Michael has won.

Everything has gone wonderfully, impeccably according to plan. Crowley and Aziraphale are happily on Earth together. Gabriel is out of the picture. Uriel and Sandalphon are too terrified to step a toe out of line again.

Michael cleans out Gabriel's office. She finds a file filled with letters and photos, from and of Lord Beelzebub, who has apparently kept in touch with Gabriel since the Notpocalypse.

 _Sunshine_ is written in an elegant scrawl at the bottom of the most recent letter. Michael touches Beelzebub's signature.

She burns the letters to ash.

* * *

Dagon reports Hastur's mysterious absence to Beelzebub, who has been worriedly dialing Gabriel's phone number over and over again for the past several minutes.

The line clicks.

"Gabriel?" Beelzebub says, too hopefully for their comfort.

" _Mm, no_ ," Michael says.

"Michael. Where iz Gabriel? We have important buzinezz to dizcuzzz." By 'important business', Beelzebub really just means having takeout in a shitty hotel and maybe fucking afterward.

" _Gabriel is not available,_ " Michael says primly. " _Good day, Lord._ "

Michael hangs up. Beelzebub grips the phone so tightly it shatters.

* * *

Legion had been enjoying a day in Hell as much as he could without Hastur around, but going without a boss has its drawbacks. Chaos, for one. No supervision. Even Legion, with his hatred of the Duke, is beginning to get concerned.

"Eric!" Dagon snaps, marching into his tiny cubicle. "Get three copies of you, we're going upstairs."

"For what, my Lord?"

"Hastur is missing and something suspicious is going on in Heaven. Beelzebub instructed me to search for Hastur personally."

Legion knows better than to suggest they're better off without Hastur. "Any theories so far?"

Dagon presses her lips together grimly, and shakes her head. "We'll start with Crowley and see if he's any help. Then we'll talk to his angel toy. If they've got nothing..." She sighs. "Hastur's been acting erratic ever since Ligur died. I wouldn't put it past him to pull something like this. Still, we've got to search if Beelzebub says so."

"Okay."

"It's Beelzebub's orders, not much I can do about it."

"Okay."

"I mean, I think Hastur's just being dramatic. A search party is a bit of an overreaction."

"I'm not arguing, my Lord."

Dagon glares at him. "Didn't I say to get three copies of you? Hop to it!"

* * *

Michael leans back in her office chair.

"It's a shame, what happened to Gabriel," she says to Uriel, who's sitting across from her, hands folded tightly in her lap. "This was a loss, indeed, but we must be strong. I hope this won't inhibit your work ethic."

"Of course not," Uriel says quietly.

"Of course not," Michael echoes.

They stare at each other.

"Maybe take a day off," Michael says finally. "Clear your mind. Resting is good for the soul."

"Yes."

Uriel rises from her seat and turns to go.

"Uriel," Michael says.

She pauses.

Michael smiles. "Congratulations. You're our new Messenger. Can't have empty positions, and all that. Tell Sandalphon the good news." After a moment, she adds, "'be on your guard; stand firm in the faith; be courageous; be strong.' Corinthians 16:13." It's a double-edged sword, both comfort and warning.

"... thank you." Uriel's voice is strained, her fingernails digging into her palms. Michael's smile never wavers.

Uriel is gone, and Michael is still smiling.

 _It is a shame,_ she muses to herself, lacing her hands behind her head.  _That Gabriel had such an inclination towards weakness._

_The Almighty places Her faith in the strong, as the strong place their faith in the Almighty._

* * *

We end, as we began, in Heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha y'all thought this was over huh?????
> 
> seriously this idea popped into my head the other day and I Had To Write It so here this is!!
> 
> don't expect regular updates lmfao


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